Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Five: Catch Me If You Can
The cobblestones were wet from an earlier rain, glistening under the soft glow of the streetlamps like scattered diamonds. The streets of Le Marais were narrow and winding, the kind of streets that begged to be explored, that held secrets in their shadowed corners and promises in their golden light.
I was warm.
Not from the night air—though Paris in spring was mild, soft, a lover's caress after the harsh winters I couldn't remember. I was warm from him. From his hand in mine, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my palm, his presence a steady, burning flame at my side.
We'd been walking for hours.
Or minutes. Time had lost meaning in the cocoon of his attention.
"Tete."
"Hmm?"
"Tete."
His head turned, his dark eyes finding mine. "Yes, Angel?"
I didn't answer. Just looked at him—at the soft glow of the streetlamp catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his hair fell across his forehead in dark, disordered waves. He was beautiful. So beautiful it made my chest ache.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm observing. There's a difference."
His lips twitched. "Did you just use my line against me?"
"Maybe."
"Petty."
"Romantic."
He laughed—soft, surprised, the sound filling the narrow street like music. I wanted to bottle it. Keep it in my pocket. Carry it with me forever.
"Tete."
"Angel."
"I'm bored."
"You're always bored."
"I'm a very easily bored person."
"You're a very spoiled person."
"Spoiled by you."
He stopped walking.
I stopped too, turning to face him. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his hand—his hand was warm in mine.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"Petty."
"Romantic."
I grinned.
And then I let go of his hand.
I ran.
Not fast—not the desperate sprint of someone fleeing danger, but the light, carefree dash of a child playing tag in the summer sun. My bare feet—when had I taken off my shoes?—slapped against the cobblestones, cool and rough and somehow grounding.
"Tete!" I called over my shoulder, my voice bright with laughter. "Catch me!"
He stood frozen for a moment—just a moment—his eyes wide, his lips parted, his body still with surprise.
Then he smiled.
Not the small, controlled smile he wore like armor. Not the cold, dangerous smile that made men tremble. A real smile. Bright and unguarded and achingly beautiful.
"Naughty little wifey," he called, his voice low and warm. "I will catch you."
And then he ran.
I laughed—loud and free, the sound echoing off the old stone walls. I darted down a side street, my dress—his shirt, really, the one I'd stolen from his suitcase—billowing around my thighs. The air was cool on my bare legs, the cobblestones rough beneath my feet.
Behind me, his footsteps.
Steady. Confident. Closing in.
"Angel!" His voice was closer now, threaded with amusement. "You can't outrun me."
"Watch me!"
I turned a corner, nearly slipping on the wet stones. Another street. Narrower this time, the buildings leaning close together, their windows dark and shuttered.
"Angel."
"I'm not stopping!"
"Angel."
"You'll have to—"
His arms caught me around the waist.
I squealed—actually squealed, a sound I didn't know I could make—as he lifted me off the ground, spinning me in a circle, his laugh rumbling against my back.
"I caught you," he murmured against my ear.
"You cheated."
"I ran."
"You ran faster."
"I have longer legs."
"Excuses."
He set me down, turning me to face him. His chest was heaving—just slightly, just enough to show that I'd made him work for it. His eyes were bright, his lips curved in a smile that was half triumph, half tenderness.
"You're impossible," he said.
"You're obsessed."
"I'm in love."
"Same thing."
He kissed me.
Soft. Quick. A reward for the chase.
I leaned into him, my hands on his chest, my heart still racing from the run—or from him, I couldn't tell anymore.
"Tete," I whispered.
"Angel."
"I want to do that again."
"Run away from me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you chase me." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "Because when you chase me, I feel like I'm worth catching."
His expression softened. "You're always worth catching."
"Then catch me."
I pulled away.
And ran.
---
I didn't see them.
I was too focused on him—on the sound of his footsteps behind me, on the warmth of his laugh, on the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The world had narrowed to the two of us, to the chase, to the simple, childish joy of being pursued by someone who wanted to catch me.
But he saw.
He always saw.
The men were standing outside a café, their collars turned up against the night air, their eyes tracking my movements with a hunger that had nothing to do with desire. They weren't tourists. Their clothes were too dark, their postures too alert, their gazes too sharp.
One of them stepped forward.
Not toward me—not yet. Just a step, a shift of weight, a hand slipping from his pocket to his side.
Taehyun's stride changed.
The playfulness vanished. The warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by something cold and sharp and dangerous. His pace quickened—not a run, not yet, but a purposeful stride that ate up the distance between us.
"Angel." His voice was calm. Too calm. "Come here."
I didn't hear him.
I was laughing, spinning, my bare feet slapping against the cobblestones.
"Angel."
I turned.
He was close now—closer than I expected, his face hard, his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. I started to turn, to follow his gaze—
His hand caught my wrist.
"Don't look," he murmured.
"Tete—"
"Don't look. Just walk."
My heart stuttered. The joy drained out of me, replaced by a cold, creeping awareness.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." His grip tightened. "Just walk, Angel."
I walked.
His body was a shield at my back, his hand a brand on my wrist. I could feel the tension in him—the coiled readiness, the barely contained violence. He was protecting me from something, shielding me from someone.
I didn't look back.
I didn't need to.
I knew.
The world had found us. Even here, in the city of love, under the soft glow of the streetlamps and the distant sparkle of the Eiffel Tower, the world had found us.
"Tete," I whispered.
"Keep walking."
"Who are they?"
"No one who matters."
"They're looking at me."
His grip tightened. "They won't be for long."
"Tete—"
"Trust me."
I did.
I always did.
---
The hotel room was dark.
He didn't turn on the lights. Just led me inside, closed the door, and pressed me against the wall. His body was a cage—warm and solid and achingly familiar.
"Tete."
"Shh."
"Who were they?"
"No one."
"They were looking at me."
"They won't look again."
"Tete—"
He kissed me.
Hard. Desperate. A claiming.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For bringing you here. For thinking we could hide. For forgetting that the world is full of monsters."
"You're not a monster."
"I am." His forehead pressed to mine. "But I'm your monster. And I'll kill anyone who tries to take you from me."
"You don't have to kill anyone."
"I will."
"Tete—"
"Shh." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "No more running tonight."
"I wasn't running from you."
"I know." His voice softened. "You were running to me."
"Yes."
"And I caught you."
"You always catch me."
He kissed me again.
Gentler this time. A promise.
"I'll always catch you," he murmured. "Always."